From a street vendor, Rasheed bought her ice cream.
It was the first time she'd eaten ice cream and Mariam had never imagined that such tricks could be played on a palate.
She devoured the entire bowl, the crushed pistachio topping, the tiny rice noodles at the bottom.
She marveled at the bewitching texture, the lapping sweetness of it.
They walked on to a place called Kocheh Morgha, Chicken Street.
It was a narrow, crowded bazaar in a neighborhood that Rasheed said was one of Kabul's wealthier ones.
“Around here is where foreign diplomats live, rich businessmen, members of the royal family that sort of people. Not like you and me.”
“I don't see any chickens,” Mariam said. “That's the one thing you can't find on Chicken Street.” Rasheed laughed.
The street was lined with shops and little stalls that sold lambskin hats and rainbow colored chapans.
Rasheed stopped to look at an engraved silver dagger in one shop,
and, in another, at an old rifle that the shopkeeper assured Rasheed was a relic from the first war against the British.
“And I'm Moshe Dayan,” Rasheed muttered. He half smiled, and it seemed to Mariam that this was a smile meant only for her.
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